


Watch Me

by Anonymous



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community: tavern_tales, Dancing, First Meetings, Flirting, M/M, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, job interview
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 17:19:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6433303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It only takes Merlin one dropped jaw and the makings of a mild heart attack to comprehend the terrible mix-up that has occurred, but by then it's too late.</i>  (Or: A bit of West Hollywood silliness in which Merlin is inexplicably American, Arthur is down with Silentó, and first impressions are...complicated.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch Me

**Author's Note:**

> Edited repost of commentfic written for Tavern Tales' March 2016 Theme: [Auditions, Assignments, Applications](http://tavern-tales.livejournal.com/20287.html). Shh just close your eyes and go with it...

All of Merlin's days are long ass days – 2.75 FTE piled onto one person's shoulders tends to have that effect – but this one's edging into sagging, drooping, danger of scraping the sidewalk territory. So when a knock comes on his office door at a quarter to eight, he's sorely tempted to hide under the desk, pretend he's not in, and let whoever it is assume he's one of those assholes who acts all superior about cycling to work, but leaves all the lights on and probably lets the faucet run while brushing his teeth. 

In truth, however, he's too exhausted to pretzel himself up under the desk, plus there's a chance it's an applicant – a serious one this time, not the parade of lookie loos, weirdos, and drunk hey-man-sorry-my-friends-dared-me types that turned up in the first few weeks after the ad had run.

He glares at the silhouette beyond the ripple glass for a moment, thinking, _please don't be a fucking weirdo,_ then minimizes the grant application he's been trying to bullshit his way through, swivels around, and starts digging through the file cart behind the desk.

"Come in!" He knows the applicant file is in here somewhere. It contains Gaius' original – handwritten _and_ post-it annotated, bless – interview sheet, and he's far too fried to ad lib with strangers. 

"Er, hello?"

Make that a _foreign_ stranger, of the British persuasion. Merlin's heart sinks. Tourist, then. Probably lost, or confused about the "Open 24 Hours" sign for the nail salon next door. 

Merlin sticks a hand up, waving to get the poor idiot's attention. "I'm afraid we're closed, but if you – " 

He straightens up and swivels back around to find a man in a pristine white and red tracksuit hovering just inside the door. Dirty blond, blue eyes, light scruff of facial hair trying – and failing – to disguise a profile off a fucking statue. His top is fitted, pulled tight across a chest Merlin would happily swap for his crappy futon, and the sort of shoulders that, as he keeps trying to explain to Will, are like secondary tits to a gay man – fun to look at in a skimpy top, good for grabbing hold of in the moment.

"Um," Merlin says, blinking, no longer sure where he was in the whole speaking-in-complete-sentences process. "Hi. Can I help you?" 

Wet-dream-in-a-tracksuit swallows, then shrugs a drawstring sports sack off his shoulders. "I saw your ad. Are you still looking for – "

"Yes!" Merlin shocks even himself with his enthusiasm. He takes a deep breath, dials down what he knows must be a maniacal grin, and swaps it for a manly, professional nod. "That is, we're still screening applicants, Mister…?"

The man looks up from rummaging in the sports sack, a tremor of panic crossing his face. "My real one, do you mean?"

Merlin's heart sinks again – perhaps the man's a weirdo after all – but he tries to keep his tone polite. "Preferably, yes."

"Arthur."

"Well then, Mister Arthur, I'm afraid – "

"No, not… It's just Arthur. My first name."

"Oh. Right. Sorry, long day. I, um, I'm afraid I haven't time for a walk-through tonight, but we can get the preliminaries out of the way, if you like. You bring your résumé?"

Arthur opens his mouth then closes it, lips flattened into a thin line. He gives a terse nod, staring fixedly at something over Merlin's head.

Merlin realizes that he has been staring rather fixedly as well, and not anywhere work-appropriate. He swivels away again, if only to avoid Arthur thinking that _he's_ the weirdo, but also remembering that he still needs Gaius' notes.

"I'm Merlin, by the way," he says as he starts rummaging in earnest. "I've just got to grab the paperwork. Go ahead and toss your résumé on the desk, make yourself comfortable." 

He hears the whisper and thwap of paper, a rustle and dull thunk, then the unmistakable sound of a zipper being unzipped. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to remember if in-through-nose, out-through-mouth is the calming sequence or the my-ch'i-is-about-to-kick-your-ch'i's-butt sequence. 

He wonders if trying not to wonder what Arthur's got on under the tracksuit top counts as sexual harassment. He wonders if he can get away with conducting the interview entirely without eye contact. His doctor seems to do just fine hiding behind his tablet, after all. Plus Gwen's assured him he's _just_ attractive enough to pull off eccentric without people taking serious offense.

Survival plan hatched, Merlin locates the file and swivels back, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the desk. He gropes for the manila folder that's been placed on the lone clear space, over by the caddy of antiquated office supplies. 

"So let's see what you're about," he murmurs, flicking the folder open. " _Oh._ Wow. That's…" 

Merlin stares, feeling his groin tense and his face flood with heat. Instead of a tidily typed sheet of accomplishments and references, he finds himself looking at a photo: a head shot, to be exact. It's definitely the man in his office, but clean-shaven, styled and lit like some fucking surfer Adonis with the ocean reflected in his eyes. And that's not all. Beneath the head shot there are, still not an actual résumé, but more photos. And these reveal far, far more than Arthur's head. 

It only takes Merlin one dropped jaw and the makings of a mild heart attack to comprehend the terrible mix-up that has occurred, but by then it's too late. He hears a burst of bouncy, auto-tuned music; he looks up to see a small portable perched on the chair and Arthur standing topless with his legs spread, one arm lifted in the air.

* * *

Arthur nails the Whip and, in Merlin's humble opinion – based on countless babysitting hours at Gwen's, being subjected to amateur dance vids on YouTube – his Nae Nae's not half bad. He's certainly no worse than any other Channing Tatum wannabe.

His Stanky Leg, however, leaves much to be desired. It's not the movement so much as his evident discomfort with what he's doing – eyes vacant and jaw clenched tight, breathing solely through his nose.

By the time he's Break-Yo'-Legs-ing, not even the sight of such a glorious specimen of male torso and a – surprisingly meaty – ass swaying rhythmically to and fro can assuage Merlin's guilt over the inadvertent fraud he's committing.

"I…" Merlin starts to rise, but quickly thinks the better of it given the state of his dick, which is distinctly chubby and therefore at odds with his fashionably-snug jeans. He slaps the folder shut instead and holds it up, waving it to get Arthur's attention. "I think there's been a misunderstanding."

Scowling, Arthur straightens up, then stops the music. "What's that?"

"I'm not Destiny. I mean, I don't work for them. They..." Merlin points up. "The nightclub's upstairs. This is the Dragon Museum. Let me guess, you came in off the alley?"

Arthur nods, scowl morphing into a look of baffled wariness. "The front was locked. When I came round I saw the light down here from the landing, and the sign said – "

"Goddamn nerd queers," Merlin mutters. Then, seeing Arthur's eyes narrow – and hands clench into fists – he quickly adds, "No, hey, I didn't mean… " He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. 

"Look, I _am_ one, alright, for all intents and purposes. It's just that the club kids are always stealing my signs. Loads of students around during the breaks. They're like lemmings. I figure dorms and frat houses across the country are littered with my finest calligraphy. I suppose I ought to be flattered."

Merlin pauses for a breath, realizing that he's babbling. Arthur is straight up staring at him now like he's some sort of zoo exhibit, head cocked to the side, but at least he's relaxed his fists.

"Here, come with me," Merlin says, sighing – knowing he's not getting any more work done tonight. "I'll walk you up on my way out."

Arthur lifts a hand, rubbing the back of his neck as he turns to grab the portable. The gesture inadvertently displays all that paler, tender looking underarm skin spread over the curves of his biceps and lats. "No need. I won't trouble you further." 

"It's no trouble, really." Arthur's armpit hair is just a shade darker than that on his head and chest, soft and springy looking; Merlin's mouth goes dry thinking about how it's probably like that down below. Unless he shaves, of course. Probably has to, in his line of work.

Merlin looks away guiltily, adding, "Least I can do in exchange for the free show. I… I'm sorry about that, by the way. I should have said something sooner when I realized the mix-up, but it really has been a very long day. And your portfolio's very…distracting."

He hears Arthur snort. "Thanks, I think."

"No, really. I didn't know underwear came in such eye-watering varieties of plaid." This elicits an actual chuckle. Their eyes meet for a moment, Merlin's stomach churning in warm knots at the first hint of a real smile. 

"Was even worse at the shoot," Arthur says. "Half dozen of us milling about, piles of the things everywhere. Gave me a headache. Had to put my sunnies on between takes. Good gig though. No creeps, solid pay."

Merlin feels his cheeks heat at the word "creeps." He lowers his eyes, double-checks that he's saved his work before powering down the laptop.

There's an awkward silence as they both pack up. Arthur shrugs back into the tracksuit top but doesn't bother zipping it, which means Merlin still doesn't know where it's safe to put his eyes. He asks Arthur to wait in the hall while he sets the alarm, and uses the privacy to make sure his messenger bag covers his groin.

* * *

"So what exactly do you have in a Dragon Museum?"

Merlin finds Arthur across the hall, trying to peer through one of the glass portholes into the darkened exhibit rooms.

"Dragons," Merlin says simply. He's not trying to be funny, but when Arthur grins at him over his shoulder, it makes him wish that he were – or perhaps that Arthur actually cared for the real answer. "C'mon, this way."

As expected, Merlin's latest "NO CLUB EXIT: HERE BE DRAGONS" sign has been pried off the wall between the upper and lower landings. In doing so, however, the little shits have also damaged the arrow sign directing people up to the club's management office. It's now cracked and dangling by one screw, pointing down instead. 

"Brilliant," Merlin mutters, kicking out at the floor bolt that holds the lower landing door open during business hours. "No wonder you got confused."

Arthur chuckles. He jogs up the steps, giving the sign a flick as he passes that sets it swinging. "Well it's a relief to know that, despite what my sister claims, all this relentless sunshine hasn't turned me into a complete airhead." 

When he reaches the upper landing he turns – almost catching Merlin ogling his ass – and leans against the wall, smirking. "What's your excuse?"

"Huh?"

Arthur indicates himself with an elegant hand wave from neck to groin. "You can hardly have thought this proper business attire for someone applying for a museum job."

"I, um, assumed you'd just come from the gym." It sounds weak even to Merlin's ears – which he knows are probably red right now. He finishes locking up and climbs the stairs, pointedly not looking at Arthur until they are of an eye level once more.

"To be perfectly honest, given the job title, I've had some real weirdos through in the past few weeks. I was just excited you weren't visibly high, wearing tinfoil, or claiming to be a reincarnation of Saint George."

Arthur grins, one eyebrow arching up – and dammit, up close like this he looks less like a god and more like an actual surfer, scruffy and sun-washed, impossibly happy in the moment, but with that little gleam in the eye for the next wave. "What's the job?"

"Research and data entry, writing exhibit copy, bit of light cleaning and maintenance in the galleries, answering visitors' questions." Merlin reels it off, realizing he's standing much too close. He edges away, clutching his bag strap. "Anything that needs doing in the moment, really. We're a small operation."

"No, what's the job _title_?" Arthur pushes off the wall, making up the distance between them. 

Merlin mutters it down at his shoes, hoping he can get away without making a complete fool of himself. 

"What was that?"

Merlin starts as he feels Arthur's breath gusting against his ear, looks up to see he's much, _much_ nearer than before – is practically looming into Merlin's airspace in a way he thought was anathema to the English, damn their enticing aftershave and bewildering hypocrisies.

He takes a steadying breath and meets Arthur's eyes. "Assistant Dragonlord. And before you laugh –" But it's too late. Arthur is laughing.

So rather than explaining about it being the late 60's when Gaius and his dad had opened the museum, and about the whole Disneyland model – and about loathing the title when he'd first had it as a teen but not minding so much by the time his dad died, and about not being willing to change it for the world now that Gaius is in hospital – Merlin finds himself stunned into awed silence as Arthur fills the landing with the loveliest sound he's ever heard, and claps him on the shoulder, and gives him a friendly shake, saying, "That's absolutely brilliant, mate. I wish I were qualified."

He's not sure what he's thinking, except that his previous plan – to avoid being mocked by someone he finds grossly attractive, point Arthur in the direction of Madame Dolma's office, and flee home to leftover takeout and the guilty pleasure of his own hand before passing out – suddenly seems quite small and unworthy.

"Look, I…" Merlin waits until he has Arthur's full attention. "I don't know your story, nor your visa situation, but you seem like a good man. And one thing I do know is what a man content in his work looks like, and your dancing back there… No offense, my friend, but that was _not_ it. If you want something different, I'm sure we could work – "

Merlin breaks off, stunned anew, because Arthur is laughing. Again.

"You think I…bloody _hell,_ Merlin, you're something else."

"Oh?"

"I love dancing," Arthur says, taking a step forward which, given that they are still connected, necessitates Merlin taking a step back. "I love all those men – women, too – watching me, wanting me. Like modeling, but better, as it's fully in the moment. Love knowing that something I'm doing gives them pleasure, gives them the courage to own their desires."

"But you – "

"Wasn't giving you that before, I know. What can I say?" Arthur slides his hand up from Merlin's shoulder to his neck, thumbing his jaw. "I've been out here for the better part of three years. When I saw your set-up – private office, no one else about, obviously not the actual club – I panicked a bit. Those sort of auditions usually end in ultimatums I don't care for."

"That's… Arthur, that's horrible." Merlin's having trouble breathing given the way Arthur's looking at him – given the scenes his imagination is conjuring. He has no filters when he's this tired.

"And yet the fact that you think so makes me want to be just as inappropriate," Arthur murmurs. "Promise you'll come watch me?"

"Whu…what?"

"Promise you'll come watch me dance sometime after work." Arthur jerks his head up, towards the stairs leading to the club. "Destiny, right?"

"You haven't even got the job yet." 

Arthur clasps Merlin's face in both hands, "Oh but I will, Mister Head Dragonlord. I've yet to meet the person who can resist my Nae Nae. Not when I really put my back into it."

And with that he presses a kiss to Merlin's forehead and trots off up the stairs, leaving Merlin flushed and grinning like one of Gaius' damn hippie bumper stickers in his wake.

Just as he – finally – pulls it together enough to walk the few steps to the outside door, Arthur's voice drifts down from the upper landing. 

"If you're embarrassed, you can tell your mates we met in Cecconi's."

"Sorry," Merlin calls back, giddy. "Not a fan of lying to my friends."

"Then let's make it true. Meet me there tomorrow night, say, half-past eight? I'll reserve a table."

"But tomorrow… Tomorrow's fucking _Friday_ , and you're not even _from_ here," Merlin sputters, turning and looking up. "How the hell would you – "

"I'm a Pen _dragon_ ," Arthur cuts in, head and hands appearing above the railing. His grin is wide, fond, and all too dear given they've only just met. "Which means, among other things, that you'll want to collect me for your museum, won’t you, _Merlin_?"

Merlin stares, slotting the features into the various blurry faces he's seen in supermarket tabloids. Rumors of a half-brother to the woman in line for the English throne, hustled off abroad some years back after a scandalous affair with a Beefeater. Slotting a possible relationship with such a rare, inexplicable, _generous_ find into this new stressful, lonely life he's leading, and finding it's the best fucking what-if he's encountered in ages.

"Watch me," he mouths, giving Arthur an equally shit-eating grin and an ironic middle finger. 

Arthur laughs, then blows him a kiss from the landing. "Half past eight," he says. "Wear something blue. And preferably flimsy."

* end *


End file.
